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19th June, 1974: Jan Olsson (Janne to his teammates) had had a pretty decent couple of years leading up to the 1974 World Cup. The little town club he played for back home in Sweden – Åtvidabergs FF – had won their first ever Swedish league championship in 1972, and had followed it up by winning it again in 1973. Olsson had been an integral part of their powerful defence, so it came as no surprise when the Swedish national team came a-calling. By the time the World Cup rolled into town, Olsson was the Swedes’ first-choice right back.
By all measures then, he was a decent footballer; and with all that domestic success behind him, not one shorn of confidence The opening match of their campaign – a goalless draw against Bulgaria – may have been drab for the viewers, but it had been confidence-boosting for the Swedish defenders, and as Olsson walked into the boisterous cathedral of football that is the Westfalenstadion on 19 June, he did so with as complete a belief in his own footballing ability as he ever had had.
Up against Olsson and his compatriots that day were Holland and their revolutionary philosophy of Total Football. In its purest form, Total Football meant everyone could, and should, play everywhere – defenders attack and attackers defend. (Basically, when a defender stepped into attack, a midfielder or attacker would drop in to cover his space ensuring the team achieved an unprecedented balance in personnel fluidity and organisational solidity).
The man who had pioneered this style of play with Ajax, Rinus Michels, now led the national team, and as team captain he had with him his orchestrator-on-the-field from his time at the Amsterdam club – the long-haired, bead necklaced, swaggeringly cool Johan Cruyff.
As 50,000 spectators, and thousands more seeing the game in glorious Technicolor, watched on, the Dutch no. 14 – ostensibly the centre forward in Michel’s 4-3-3 – had already started giving the Swedish defence all sorts of bother by popping up all over the pitch. One moment he was on the right, whipping in crosses, the other he was driving through the centre of the pitch – tall and upright, his long, elegant strides eating up the ground as he swerved past tackle after futile tackle.
He had though, as was his habit, spent most of the opening 20-odd minutes on the left side, tormenting Jan Olsson – pulling him this way and that. The poor Swede’s belief in his abilities that had seemed so iron-clad certain was now hanging by the thinnest of threads; a thread that was just about to get ripped apart in the most devastatingly beautiful of ways.
The Turn
The minute hand had just touched 23 when Wim van Hanegem (supposedly left mid but at the time occupying a right wing position) chipped a pass back along to his centre back (who had now appeared in the right back slot) Wim Rijsbergen. The ball was then immediately clipped onto the feet of the magisterial sweeper Arie Haan who had been ambling along in the middle of the park. Setting himself up with a couple of deft touches, Haan launched a pin-point cross field ball to Cruyff, at the edge of the penalty box down the left flank.
Cruyff’s first touch killed the ball dead – but not with as much precision as he would have liked. A telescopic stretch of his right leg was enough to make sure Olsson (who had been right behind him) didn’t get a chance to snip in, but he had had to roll the ball under his boot and turn his back to goal to ensure it stayed out of the Swede’s reach. At this point in time, Olsson was doing everything right – his tight marking had ensured the Dutchman had nowhere to go.
Then IT happened.
A tiny, almost imperceptible drop of Cruyff’s left shoulder was caught by Olsson – who immediately moved to his left to make an interception. Except, for poor ol’ Olsson, there was no one there to intercept.
Having sold the Swede the mother of all dummies, Cruyff had caressed the ball with the inside of his right boot, pulling it back behind his standing leg and spinning himself in a full 180-degree arc in one smooth, balletic movement. Faster than the blink of an eye, the great Dutchman had created acres of space for himself out of nothing, leaving Olsson with the most perplexed look you will ever see on a football field – the look of a man who has seen something, but still can’t quite understand just how it happened.
More than the preposterous arrogance to try out such a difficult piece of skill on such a grand stage or the not inconsiderable technique needed to pull it off, it is the absolute magnificence of the near imperceptible feint that makes the play immortal – Olsson bought it hook, line and sinker, and without that, this Turn wouldn’t have been half as memorable.
The Cruyff Turn – the symbol of the sexy 70s and the era of Total Football – had been introduced to the world.
Total Football and the ’74 World Cup
In Total Football, constant movement, on and off the ball, actively contributed to the ultimate goal. There was Creation of Space (or the negation of it while defending), and everyone played their part. The Cruyff Turn was as much about this philosophy of the collective as it was about the skill of the individual.
The ball had after all reached the ‘centre forward’ on the far left, after a series of passes had been exchanged between a left sided central midfielder and a centre back far out on the right flank with a sweeper (whose original position lay behind the defence, and just ahead of the keeper) playing the role of playmaker in central midfield.
Just as it showcased the very best virtues of the Dutch philosophy and way of playing of the 70s though, it also showed its worst traits. Wait, worst you say? That gorgeous piece of unearthly beauty has a bad side? Pshaw!
Well, what do you think happened after Cruyff... er… Cruyff-ed his way into the penalty box? With the box at his mercy, the great man flicked the most insouciant of passes with the outside of his right foot to Johnny Rep – who completely missed the ball. And despite Van Hanegem’s best efforts to salvage something, the move ultimately fizzled out into nothing.
All that magic, and the end result was the square root of bugger-all. Despite tremendous Dutch pressure, the Scandinavians held on for their second consecutive 0-0 draw.
That match may have ended goalless but the fire had been lit beneath the Dutch juggernaut, and inspired by the magnificent Cruyff, they waltzed past Uruguay (2-0), Bulgaria (4-1), Argentina (4-0) and the thugs of Brazil (2-0) to set up a date with the hosts, West Germany.
They had played fantastic football, and looked fabulous while at it. Their flowing long hair and jangling bead necklaces, and tales of epic post-match parties and much (sometimes illegal) merrymaking made them the ultimate embodiement of the 70s’ hippies.
They started the final much the same way they had played for the entire tournament, the Germans not even getting close to putting a foot on the ball, before a typically elegant yet deceptively powerful run from Cruyff was interrupted by a hapless Uli Hoeness tackle. The resulting penalty was duly converted by the ever reliable Johan Neeskens.
They toyed with the Germans for the next 20 minutes or so – without much to show for it in terms of goals or attempts. But the Germans slowly started piling on some pressure, which ended with Bernd Hölzenbein being tackled clumsily by Wim Jansen in the penalty box. The spot kick was faultlessly converted by the free-scoring, free-roaming ‘left back’ Paul Breitner.
Then, just before half time, the anti-Cruyff – Gerd Müller (inelegant, awkward, squat and brutally ruthless) – came up with his own piece of bravura skill.
It may not be as celebrated as the Cruyff turn, but the Müller pivot is as great a piece of skill as you will ever see in a World Cup final. Der Bomber controlled a hard Jürgen Grabowski cross, and then somehow managed to adjust his body weight while leaning back (almost mid-fall) and sweep in a clinical low finish in one swift, ungainly-looking motion.
As the Dutch were about to find out, you don’t give the Germans a lead and expect to get it back. Despite the Dutchmen’s best efforts, by the end of the 90 minutes, the hosts had etched their names on the new World Cup trophy.
For Cruyff and Holland, there would be no happy ending. Not in this cup, nor the next – arguably the best international side of the ‘70s, certainly the sexiest, have absolutely nothing in their trophy cabinet to show for it.
Johan Cruyff’s Total Footballing team – just like his most famous piece of skill – had been mesmerically beautiful. Yet at the end of it all, they were frustratingly pointless.
Pointless, if the point was winning trophies, of course. For, as the Cruyff Turn showed, even if it leads to pretty much nothing of material import, a piece of art can be beautiful, and history-making, all by its lonesome.
Jan Olsson, for one, would agree.
